


Ink

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-15
Updated: 2009-02-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.Author's notes:Dean and Sam are not related!





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Dean and Sam are not related!

  
Author's notes: Dean and Sam are not related!  


* * *

Ink

## Ink

### by Griva

##### [Story Headers]

  


**INK**

Rating: NC-17   
Pairings: Alex/Dean, kinda Sam/Dean/Alex, kinda Alex/OMC/Sam. Dean and Sam are not related.   
Some of you might object to my treatment of Sam in this fic. Just remember it's not THE brothers from the show, however similar i tried to keep them. The name of Chad as Sam's first bf is purely accidental. :) 

Notes: the tatt on Alex's index finger fortuna futurus (Latin)- fate exists Beta: LID!!! 

Summary: Dean wants to get a talisman tatt. The tatts masters objectify him. Guess why? 

* * *

So we're talking sterile environment, right? People have this idea that tattoo parlours are dirty places, blood-poisoning lurking all around, unwrapped needles, you name it. But think about it. It's a _parlour_. You could eat dainty fucking fairycakes off the floor in here; let's get that straight before we get started. 

The players? Well there's me, obviously. I'm Sam, by the way. There's Alex the Ink. He's the ace with the needle. And there's Dean, the kid. 

Now Dean's about as trusting as a cat, all claws and watchful eyes. Never lets his guard down, not for a minute. Sparks like a cat too, when he's stroked. You getting the picture? 

He's too long for the couch where he's lying, bare feet curled up, pale insteps looking pristine, un-walked-on, dark head buried in his folded arms. Faded khakis, gray t-shirt, sneakers lying beside the couch. His brown leather jacket is cracked and mottled with dirt and abrasions. Yeah, he spent the night here, but don't get any funny ideas. He turned up too late yesterday for Alex to work his magic with the tats. Alex was out, to start with, one more buddy to hook up with at the Downtown Plaza. Or so he always said. So I let him crash on the couch. Kid's desperate to get inked before he goes--wherever he's going. Not back home, is my guess. I say `kid'; but he's about my age, I reckon. Of legal age, for sure. Might have two or three years on me, can't tell. Old soul, that's Dean. 

Truth is, and don't read too much into this, I'm just a little afraid of him. No, he doesn't look like he's slept on the street. But he's not the usual type we get in here. Our parlor isn't used to this sort of natural perfection, for one thing. Some clients come in the kind of shape the kid has, but they get that way after weeks of shaving, plucking, tanning and a hundred extra crunches a day. The lazier, richer ones go for straight surgical enhancement. 

After giving the Sleeping Beauty a thorough once-over, Alex was pretty sure the kid hadn't got the money for a tiny black Celtic cross to put on his shoulder, let alone the intricate stuff he'd lapped up hungrily from the stencil catalogues and my own sketches the night before. He was browsing through the full upper back, three-color designs, and those cost a mega-buck. Which is good. We're not a charity fund. I used to go to vet school, before I dropped out. `Happy is the man whose hobby is his work,' the Professor said as he prepped another cow carcass to dissect. Rubbing shoulders and ink needles with Alex for nearly half a year did widen my perspective about how businesses are run and how some things get arranged. Sometimes business can be pleasure. 

Alex reckons we've hit the jackpot, with Dean. Watching him wake, I'm inclined to agree. 

Christ on a crutch, he's beautiful. He's tall, compact, shoulders tapering to the slimmest waist I've seen on a dude (and I've seen some naked beefcake, take my word for it), muscles flexing under pale skin as he turns onto his side, propping his head on his hand and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

"Morning." I grin across the counter top. 

Dean says, "Hey." For a few seconds, his eyes have this wide-eyed innocent expression - like Bambi's. 

"Coffee?" 

"Thanks." He rubs a hand through his hair and rolls upright, spiking a glance at me, looking irritated by the attention. What the fuck, I shrug to myself, he looks like a whack-off fantasy, people are gonna stare. Get used to it, buddy. 

"Cigarette?" I offer, tossing the pack with a sharp flick of the wrist. 

Dean catches it. Yep, he's fast. Good reflexes. He gets to his feet and comes across the room. I step around the counter to snap a lighter at the stick between his lips. Holy Moses, what a mouth! I grab a handful of his t-shirt, murmuring, "C'mere." 

I'm not such a bold desperado, usually. At this hour, I'm generally still in my bunk. With our clientele, we keep late hours. 

Dean blows a wall of smoke between us. "I need a shower." 

"Sure." I slip a hand down to the crotch of his khakis to stroke the early morning hard-on. "Later." 

An attempt is no sin - I try, but I don't win. He twists away from my touch, but doesn't even try to feign mortification. "Will you give me a break? It's not even eight o'clock." 

Oh, did I mention, he's an A1 cock-tease? 

"Dude, did you notice we're closed on Mondays?" 

"Dude, you don't own the place," he takes another drag of his smoke, leans against the counter, watching me closely fiddle with the pen, shuffle fretfully through Kanji drawings. 

"What's this? Japanese?" He peers at the lettering. I stare at his nostrils flaring at the aroma of coffee. His freckles are like caramel sprinkles. My mouth waters. 

"Sorta. Chinese characters that are used in the modern Japanese logographic writing system." I'm smart, and I like to show it. "A single kanji may be used to write one or more different words." 

He looks like he isn't sure how to take me. If I didn't have three inches on him, Dean would probably stare me down. He cocks his hip instead, the belt-less waist of his pants riding low. I get a peek of a ragged scar on his left side. Too rough-looking to be an appendicitis scar. 

"This is Hope - Kibou. This is Truth - Makoto. Lately, exotic lettering is back in fashion." I explain in my best customer-friendly voice to keep my upstairs brain and my hands busy. "Strength, Chikara." 

"And this?" he wiggles his brows, pulls out a random sheet from the very bottom of the stack. 

"Aisoku. Beloved Son." I smile, no falter in my voice. 

"No shit." There is an edge in his voice. He puts out the cigarette butt in my empty coffee mug. "Looks like fly crap to me." 

What the fuck just bit his ass? I thought we were warming up to something. He shrugs off my glare with a lazy roll of his shoulders. I'm not sure if I want to punch him or fuck him, or punch him and then fuck him. 

Doesn't matter. If he wants the ink, he's going to have to put out, sooner or later. I'd seriously like to try his mouth, but I'm getting this vibe it's off limits. You know, like consecrated ground? I'm betting there are nuns who give blowjobs less reluctantly than this dude. 

I shove up the sleeve of my sweatshirt to show off the tat. "My design. Alex's work. Beautiful, isn't it?" 

He nods, looking instantly mesmerized by the ink. It starts as a seven-knot in black and blue circling my wrist, twining around my forearm in black scales, a stylized serpent biting through the last coil under the tender skin of the inside of my mid-shoulder. 

Then he says, "Is he clean?" 

I snort. Because Alex can't see me. "He's clean." 

"I mean his kit. If he's sticking needles in me, I want to know I'm not getting septicemia on the side." 

Is he blind? There are framed posters on the walls. Not Lenny Kravitz or Kid Rock, but a few bands that made it Big in the last couple of years. Alex had inked them back when they were throwing gigs in front of ten dopey eyed punks, strummed their six-strings for a twenty each. He thinks they'd send back signed posters if there were vermin crawling here or they'd caught hepatitis? 

"He's clean, okay? Go get your shower." 

Still frowning hard, Dean swaggers away. He must have spent lots of time in locker-rooms earning those bowlegs. 

"Asshole," I mutter when he's out of sight, shift my dick and shove the empty cups into the sink. 

* * *

That's one very long shower Dean's taking. My gain. I don't have to share my eggs and bacon. 

Downstairs in the parlour, Alex the Ink takes one look as newly-showered Dean walks in and grins, all sharp teeth and laugh lines. "Give us your hand, kid." 

He takes it in a firm grip, looking into Dean's hazel eyes for a moment. "Other hand." 

Dean offers it, standing still as Alex twists his wrists flat and studies his forearms. Alex's gaze is like a touch. Hell, it's a fucking caress, smooth as glass, like getting licked by a hundred dollar whore. I catch the kid looking at Alex under his lashes, checking him out. 

I snort. I'm not worth a second glance, but Alex is worth three or four? Cheeky bastard, Dean thinks he's being very subtle. 

Alex's got looks like a film star, I have to admit. The type that gets the part of the double dealing bastard or sleazy seducers. He's almost twice my age, but you'd never be able to tell if you didn't know him. He slouches a little, and he's not ripped, but he's sleek, toned, with close cropped dark hair and killer eyes. 

Yeah, that's right, take the piss; I'm the ugly duckling in this party. I'm tall as a beanstalk and have fair, clear skin that sucks any ink like a baby suck its breast milk. I don't look like I was raised on a farm (which I was), but that's about my only advantage. Alex says in a couple more years, with the mandatory change of hairstyle, there will be dudes like this one lining up after me. By then I might have gotten rid of the pallor that comes with the bookish lifestyle. 

He's just being nice to me. Steel tipped boots and black jeans and black shirtsleeves is Alex's look. An intricate tribal suture tat runs up the side of his neck, ending at that sweet spot right under the ear, begging to get licked. 

My practical guess is that Alex used to be with the military; my wildest guess is that he's still with the mob. I mean, he "knows" all the right people. The kind of right that "makes things happen." Some of them I prefer to know by alias only; it makes my tip fatter and my sleep safer. 

When Alex squints, looking somewhere past me, I have no doubts Alex could get his target killed, collect his reward, and move on without another thought. The geek in me has done some research. The spider web tat covering his left elbow meant he'd been locked up for a murder. You'd be surprised at how clean and intricate you can get with a ball point pen, a motor from a CD player, and a guitar string in prison. It's not the instrument that matters. It's the master. 

Lucky for me, he's best ink man in two states to the north. To the West - there is only the ocean. 

* * *

"Nice skin," Alex tells the kid. "Know what I'm going to give you?" 

Dean shakes his head. 

"Golden Dawn Cross. Right here." He traces its outline, up the kid's left forearm. "And Rose Cross, here." Up his right forearm. 

The hidden significance of the triumph of spirit over matter has never been transferred onto such a fucking appetizing body. It's rare that I suck at guessing the customer's choice. Yesterday I showed him skulls and tigers and a she-devil. But looks like Dean's into the symbolic shit-- magic talisman, all that kind of thing--which suits Alex and me because the symbols aren't cheap and the kid knows it. 

Alex looks him over. "Shirt off. Let's see what else I got to work with." 

Dean hauls the t-shirt over his head, keeping it in his hand as Alex walks around him, taking a good look. "Real nice, be like inking on silk." 

I see Dean flinch from the trail of fingers across the back of his shoulders. But he stands still, saying nothing. 

"Sigillum Dei Ameth," Alex murmurs, coming to a standstill behind the kid. 

"What?" Dean jerks his head around to stare at Alex. 

"The Sigil of Ameth." Alex puts his palm flat on the kid's back, between his shoulder-blades. "Seal of the Truth of God. Right here." 

"I know what it is," Dean says, "I've seen pictures of the Holy Table. You're not tattooing that on my back. Jesus, how many days would it take?" 

"A few," Alex admits. "But think how cool it'd look." 

The kid thinks; we both see him doing it. 

"Start with the Golden Dawn," I recommend. "See how it goes." 

Alex nods and starts laying out his kit. Dean watches him, sees that everything comes out of sterile packs, wrapped. He's put aside a generous whiskey shot ("On the house, for when you're done," I told him, knowing Alex won't ink on drink-relaxed skin); Alex and I downed our shots in one. I fetch the bottle and set it on the table, within easy reach. 

"Sit," Alex tells him. 

"Where?" 

I sprawl on the couch, spreading my legs and patting the worn leather between them. Dean gives me a hostile look of annoyance. 

"Think it through, dude," I shrug. "How many chairs in this place?" 

Alex and I shifted the chair late last night, put it in the backroom. Planning ahead is what Alex calls it; can't fault us for that. 

The kid mutters some obscenity, seating himself where he's told, more or less in my lap. I smile over the top of his head, at Alex. 

Pause. 

"Just relax, all right?" Alex is smiling this fond, amused little smile, and this is the hottest, most dangerous thing I've ever seen. 

"I am relaxed." Dean answers stubbornly. 

"Not from where I'm standing." 

Kid's thick eyelashes flutter anxiously; his clear eyes shift as he watches me over his bare shoulder. I smile, cheerful as Sunday morning. Swallow down the urge to bite him on the back of the neck. 

Dude, it's not me you should have the jitters about. 

"Loosen up. You can be yourself with us. We won't tell anyone," I whisper huskily into his ear. The kid turns again, glares and pouts. Alex's imperturbable face doesn't cover the wicked glint in his jade eyes. 

Alex soaks a strip of cloth in the bowl of water I've provided. Dean's keeping one eye on what he's doing. Alex nods his approval. "Stick out your arms." 

"Which one?" 

"Both together. I've got to get the symmetry right, to give the best effect." 

Dean holds his arms out and Alex works liquid soap into his skin, lathering it from elbows to hands. The soap's green; the smell of it makes Dean wrinkle his nose. Alex rinses the kid's skin and dries it with a paper towel from a sterile pack. 

When he's done, he fits Dean's wrists together, side by side, elbows touching, knuckles facing outwards, bending his arms into a right angle and resting the kid's fingers on his forehead to help him keep still. 

"Like that. Okay. Keep steady for me." 

He draws the raw outline of the tats on the forearms with a marker, then gets started on the real work. I love to see the smooth movement of Alex's hand, wielding the needle like a conductor's baton, the equally smooth movement of his foot working the pedal, lifting a hum like music from the motor. 

"Real still, kid. As the grave." 

Dean nods. I can feel how rigid he is. It takes a while for him to get used to the rhythm of the pain, from the needle, the wiping, the gel. I remember my first tattoo. Small, crude, cheap. Jesus, those first five minutes under the needle, you never forget them. The longer it lasts, the more you dread the pain, like being punctured by a pencil lead, over and over. 

The smell of the soap and blood, the sound of the pedal, turns me on. With Alex, it always does. Like Pavlov's fuckin' dog, heat pooling in my balls, my dick jutting to the left, throbbing. More, I need fucking more. 

I'm wondering how the kid will cope with the pain that's still to come. It's going to take some ink, to fill in the Crosses. The more ink Alex puts in, the more he's gonna clean the skin. That pain is something else, like scrubbing a freshly skinned knee, then skinning it again; scrubbing it, skinning it, over and over. But it's the bit after the bandages come off that kills me, every time. The bit when the ink is drying under the surface. Like lobster-red sunburn being slapped. The kid'll have to treat his skin like a baby's: wash it, work lotion in, keep clothes away from it. And not scratch the holy crap out of it, which is the hardest part of all. Scratch and you end up pulling the ink right out, so the whole goddamned thing'll have been for nothing. 

After the first twenty minutes, I see a fine layer of sweat forming on the back of the kid's neck. But Dean doesn't move or make a sound. Once the outline is done, Alex blots the blood, washes his skin again with the green soap and tells him to take a break. 

"You've got a mile-high pain threshold, kid, could take the Sigil of Ameth easy." 

Dean nods, rubbing his wrists, working the blood back into his fingers. After a bit, he kicks off the couch and heads for the bathroom. 

"Cute kid," Alex says, when Dean's out of earshot. "Think he's as tight as he looks?" 

"Tighter," I say. 

"Yeah." Alex drawls, deep in thought. He rubs the knuckle with the tat over his bared front teeth, nostrils flaring like a predator scenting prey. 

There is a sucking feeling under my ribs, a trigger gone off. I close my eyes, hold my breath and brace my heart. 

The mark has been set up, and his name is Dean. 

* * *

See, I have this silly crush on Alex. It's not sexual (I keep telling myself); it's professional. 

I've stuck like chewing gum to Alex's shoe since my foster parents kicked me out pretending that I was practicing Satanism. Which I wasn't. Actually it was the Kaballah, but to them it was all the same. Kansas farm people, they may be salt of the earth but they're no scholars. My hideous crime was to leaf through the book and practice copying the symbols. 

And then they discovered I was a sodomite. Which I hadn't been...before. It's just that Uncle Jonas walked in on me and Chad, who had that thong on, asking if I liked the pink and I had to kneel and stoop down to right it so his balls weren't on display. Why Chad would decide to jump me, I still have no fucking idea, because me and Chad, we go back to making toy trucks out of milk cartons. Then there were those two gloryhole experiences, but even Chad didn't know about those. I was curious, and horny. I wouldn't have ever tried it on my home turf--call it caution, call it self-preservation. And up until I turned twenty, I'd never been to a big city, where nobody knew or cared who you were or what you did. In a small, rural town, everyone knows everyone else's business. 

I moved in with Chad for awhile, and we finally got down to it. As it turned out, he'd wanted it since forever. He had fuckin' dopey, shit-stupid blue eyes; those big full lips and that tight ass of his in those tight jeans he wore. He taught me lots about the other side of sex, things I'd never thought of, and I'd thought a lot. Those were weeks of heat and boredom, until I started to feel like I'd go crazy if I didn't let off some steam doing something else. 

Chad must've set me up with that thong thing, I figure now, to push me into moving in with him. He could have just asked, instead of luring me in and leaving me flat. He left suddenly, after discovering the stash of porn on my hard drive. He was shocked, to say the least, and I was shocked at his reaction. What guy doesn't like porn? 

But no; Chad was possessive as well as manipulative. "Aren't I enough for you?" was his response. I didn't want to say "Yes," which would be lying, even though he expected it, or "No," which would be the truth. Instead, I chose to look down at the floor, which, incidentally, turned out to be in desperate need of a good sweeping. Just prior to his exit, he glared at me - a hard, cold, angry look of the kind I tend to try my best to avoid in life. "I can't believe you need this crap to get off." When I heard the door slam, I paced back to my battered laptop, sat down at the keyboard and checked to make sure he hadn't deleted anything. Then I picked up my pencils and HR Giger's guide to the dark art of drawing. 

* * *

I wandered for awhile. Eventually ended up in Sacramento and met Alex at the hospital here. He was getting a mandatory blood check. I was really fucked up. The shelter didn't work for me (too many pointless rules); going home was not an option. I was on my way to becoming a statistic, one of those kids you never hear about, except as a number in the body count taken by life on the streets. 

Got more of these? Alex asked, watching me doodle on the side of a Donate Blood leaflet. Wanna come with me? My first move was to flip him off. I'm not sellin' cheap, was my second thought. That pride of mine would get me killed some day. I looked up. His eyes were amazing. He could have fixed those eyes straight on mine and suggested knocking off a bank and running away to South America and I probably would have gone along with no more than a nod of my head (couldn't believe I actually thought that). His small smile was a little asymmetric, and exuded self-confidence. 

He hesitated for a split second and was gone, dropping his card on the counter and leaving me with the memory of the intricate lettering that ran along his right index finger. Fortuna futurus. My fortune hadn't exactly been measured in miles, up till now. This hit too close to home; made me nervous. Who was this guy? I chickened out, and, flipping my hood up against the rain, I set off, hopping puddles, without a backward glance. 

But the next day I dropped a quarter in a pay phone and dialed the number printed on the black square. My fingers were shaking like my brains had been baked. What really bothered me was that I couldn't tell if it was from fear...or anticipation. 

A hasty, impulsive decision, but I've never regretted it. 

* * *

Wouldn't you goddamn know it? I turned out to be better at this than Alex. He said it's fucking organic. It was like I knew half the shit he was teaching me intuitively. I can translate a customer's shyly-mumbled wish into a stencil; make a design out of someone's wild gesticulation. Alex was completely honest about how good I was, and it was as terrifying as it was satisfying to know my crazy hobby would earn me some good dough. 

I had the honest face of a homegrown kid, who can wax rhapsodic with bullshit about any symbol to any goth chick, biker dude, or their punk dog. The Triquetra, the Star of Ishtar, a Celtic Unicorn, an Ourobouros over the coccyx - I could make all our customers feel they were selecting the right symbol -the one that would fit only them. The black tribal tattoo Brad Pitt had in Ocean's Eleven, that cool scribble in Latin Angelina Jolie had over her pubic bone; I knew them all. 

I was overwhelmed by my good fortune. And yet I had to act like it wasn't the fuck enough; I had to push it further. For gawdsakes, I went to bed stoked with excitement and woke up stiff. For Alex. It didn't matter that he was old enough to be my father, even if I'd known who my father was. All I knew that he and my runaway mum were barely out of their teenage years when they dumped me into foster care. 

"I don't mix business with pleasure unless absolutely necessary. And with you I'd always figured it wouldn't be necessary." He said, once, in that soft, low voice that made you falter, pay attention to his drop-dead glare. 

He had just finished the pieced ankh - the key of life - on my hip. I was high on endorphins, ripe with sweat, hot with needing a hard stroke like yesterday. Standing bent over, pushing out my ass in another guy's face, only made me think of one thing. I knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do in that circumstance, but I humped his leg, nibbling at his cotton covered nipples, my hunger like a memory too terrifying to articulate. 

"Easy." Alex's voice was nothing more than a murmur in my ear as his hand wrapped around my cock, stroking slowly and coaxing reactions out of my body that I wasn't sure I could handle. Slowly at first but then faster and faster as the strokes quickened; but they were too much, too intense. I choked on a sob as I came, release ripping through me like a knife, jagged and jarring, pleasure laced with disguised pain. 

Bed. Kneel. Now. He only had to hint, and I'd fucking scurry to his bedroom. I wouldn't fucking mind servicing him anyway, even though he owed me a month's pay by then, but the food, the roof and the ink...I'd pay back in kind just to get more of this. I would take a punch without hitting back, too. I sprayed a milky way across the beltline of his black Levi's. 

"Please." It drifted out of my mouth before I even knew it, and I clapped my hand over my mouth, shocked at myself. Alex didn't even look surprised, just glanced up and down my body with those steady dark green eyes. 

I stared in astonishment as he only touched my cheek. The smirk on his lips, his face glowering, his brow sweaty. "Was it the thought of me fucking you or of me hurting you that got you there?" Alex motioned to my pants on the floor. Brusque enough to preclude any objections. 

I couldn't answer. I didn't fucking know, I couldn't choose between them, and, for that reason if no othere, I had a feeling it was both. I really didn't want to think about just how messed up that made me. I said nothing; it felt safer. 

"You're a nice guy, Sam," he added as he pulled off his stained pants. Which is universal shorthand for, "Look, we both know I'm not going to fuck you, so don't get pissy." 

That was the only time I ever got that close to him. Things cleared up after that. 

Alex wasn't much of a talker, but I started to understand why he kept that distance, what Alex meant about not mixing business and pleasure When you get off on pain, it's complicated enough to be mixing pain and pleasure like that in your work....but you have to be careful not to bring it into the bedroom. Especially if you live with your work partner and survive on your wits. It can mess up your thinking, cloud your head. Alex needed me focused, and I was eager to learn everything he taught. 

* * *

I had a new confidence, now, and a coldness I hadn't had before. As though with every jab of the inked needle, Alex had made me different somehow. I stopped my advances because I might have a future here; one that mattered to me. I didn't want to mess it up by coming off as a dumb, clingy nancy. 

Alex inked chicks sometimes, but by a good rec, and then only if the intent was to ink at least three inches of skin. They usually came in pairs or flocks, as some kind of collective courage effort. They were easily distracted by two males sharing a blood and blot job. 

Alex liked it quiet when he worked. Book another twat twitter job, he'd usually smirk at me, lighting a cig. I didn't have to ask what he meant. Girls tended to chatter, out of nervousness or arousal; they whispered to Alex that he smelt like sex and flashed their new boob-jobs when they could keep their bras on. Their sweat smelt of meringue shells, I could taste them as if I was sucking on lemon drops. They fondled my pencils; one girl asked if I could put on some Beyonce. I never figured out if she fucking meant it, if I truly looked like her number one fan. 

This girl wasn't to my taste: she stank of money and faux bronzer, a Cameron Diaz lookalike, I swear, if only she had been wearing a leather collar, a labret and D&G leather twopiece. I did a humming bird in a thornbush stencil for her lower back while Alex inked Unclothed You Are True on the soft skin of her belly. She jotted her cell number on my palm and called me her sweet puppy in a voice that sounded like she spent most of her time singing in smoky, noisy places, making me feeling a bit shaky on my feet. 

"She'll whip you if you misbehave," Alex winked when he noticed me copying the number from my skin into my notebook. 

Men were another thing entirely. Alex knew the craven stare that guys wear when they feel experimental, something in those eyes that burn. I could see the lust seeping through their unbuttoned shirts, as their eyes flicked between us. Maybe it was also the age difference, the thought of us fucking that fired them up. The patches of sweat that were making briefs wrinkle and stick and look like they had to come off when Alex gave the final dab and sweep. Some did take them off, they wanted to pay us for a fuck as well as the ink, but Alex never took the money. 

He'd offer the willing customer a drink instead. That was always the signal to me, the red alert, if you will. I could always leave before they got it on. A guy needs some sugar, you know, and I was just a guy. 

All the customers so favored blurred into one sense memory. Jangled bits of equipment, a familiar slap of wet skin on skin, sharp smell of rubber and talc when Alex rolled a condom on himself. A graze of teeth against my cheek or the brush of a sweaty hand against my hip when we undressed, that was all contact we shared. Alex would flicker a nail as his fingers curled around my wrists, as I was holding some golden-skinned, groin salon-waxed jock down. I usually went for the face fuck, made me swell and shoot with the power of it. 

All the while those dark eyes watched me, staring right through me, as though they would learn every bad thing I'd ever done. I'd come looking at his eyes, and had to turn away lest Alex see the raw emotion in mine. Moments after, Alex would bare his teeth and throw his head back, plugging some guy's ass hard with his cock. 

* * *

I shake myself out of my memories of the past as Dean comes back from the bathroom. Alex and I are finishing off a third shot between us. 

"C'mere," I beckon. He returns to his place on the couch, between my legs. I slip an arm about his waist and lean in to nuzzle the back of his neck. It's still beaded with sweat, salty to the taste. He moves his shoulders, half-heartedly. 

"Get off." I've seen the likes of him, he doesn't mean it. His body language, his tone of voice: he thinks of himself as a prize; likes to make guys work for the payoff. 

"Nope." I lick at the beaded skin. "You taste too good." 

Dean mutters something. He could easily shrug me off if he wanted; I'm bigger than he is, but the kid's wiry. Alex watches us with a smile, seeing exactly what's going on. I slide both hands up the kid's chest and pinch his nipples. 

He makes this sound, which I'm choosing to call a moan. The next thing I know, a sharp elbow in my side knocks the breath out of me. My eagerness made me move too fast; he wants to take his time playing this out. Dean sneers. 

"I ain't putting on a show for your sugar daddy, puppy boy." 

"Play nice, kid." Alex is on the couch, pinning him in place before I can blink twice. "Sammy's good. He'll be around when I'm long gone. You're gonna bring your kiddies to him to get inked." 

"God forbid," I hear Dean mutter. I prefer to think it's the thought of kids that give him the hives, not me being around. 

"It's not gonna get done without Sammy doing his part. You're gonna love the tats." 

Dean looks down at the work Alex has started on his arms. I nudge him in the soft stomach, half heartedly, lean in and kiss his neck, nodding at Alex. Then I slip my arms about Dean's torso and draw him back down into a loose embrace, half-sitting, half-lying in my lap. Alex brushes the kid's hair from his eyes with the tips of his fingers before touching his mouth, moving in for a kiss. After a beat or two, I hear Dean moan with faint reluctance. 

"C'mon, kid," Alex soothes, "You want the ink. I'll paint you pretty." 

Dean moves as the kiss slips deeper, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. I bite down a groan, my cock stiffening under his squirming ass. 

Alex unbuttons the khakis and pulls them out from under Dean in a series of short jerks. Dean scrabbles at the couch, at me, trying to get upright, cursing softly. As if he hasn't seen this coming. Yeah right, next time you think twice before you eye-fuck my partner. 

I tighten my grip, my hands around the slim biceps, elbows pinning him back against my chest. I've got a good grip on things in general. I suck at the nape of his neck, grazing with my teeth. He's fighting me but not so much, his breath coming in gasps as Alex moves the kiss from his neck to his nipples then down, across the flat outcrop of his belly, to his cock. 

There's a grinding sound from Dean's teeth as Alex dips lower, his tongue lapping wetly as it goes. He hikes the kid's legs up and open, slipping one over his shoulder as he rims, before straightening, licking his lips. 

"You taste good, Dean." He's got his thumb against the kid's ass, rolling it gently. "If you don't like this, you could always pay me in good old fashioned bucks. Three hundred and fifty for the Crosses. A thousand for the Ameth." 

Dean is glaring, I sense it. I nip at his earlobe to get his attention. "C'mon, dude. I'll suck you off when he's done." 

"I don't want your fucking mouth anywhere near me." 

He's not too happy with me right now; but all that'll change, you'll see. 

Alex looks from me to Dean, winks. "Hey, Sam, if the kid doesn't want it..." 

"He wants it." I push my crotch against the clench of Dean's ass. "Don't you?" I bite down again, into the taut strip of muscle marking out the angle of his shoulder. 

Dean blanks me out, shifting his gaze to Alex. "I want the Crosses finished tonight." His voice is harder than diamonds. "And the Ameth, in outline. I want the whole lot done in two days. For one fuck." 

He's got gall. His asshole must be gilded and he must shit golden bricks. That, or his grip on reality is somewhat... questionable. 

"Suits me." Alex grins. He winks at me again. I roll my eyes softly, blow my wet hair out of my eyes, with little success. The kid's been had. I`ve seen hulks twice his size pass out like lights when Alex starts the Ameth. That's work for at least three or four days. 

"And use a condom." 

"Sure. Sam?" 

I nod. "Bathroom cabinet, top shelf. Lube, too, if you want it." 

"You want lube, kid?" 

Dean nods. I sit stroking his neck until Alex returns. 

"You skinnyass motherfucker," Dean mutters as my fingers slip stroke across his stomach, nails grazing the rough skin of his scar. 

"Think what I can draw on this one," I murmur. "Work some magic on you. Change that scar into a snake...no one would even know you had it." I kiss the spot I bit. 

"Ain't you fucking sweet charity," Dean snaps. "Or it's 'cus you can't get laid without taking his sloppy seconds?" 

I let his jibes roll off me, and that makes him even more annoyed. 

Alex returns, to kneel between Dean's legs. He works lube up the kid's ass with a careful finger. Dean wriggles his hips, then goes still, hissing through his teeth. 

Alex strips, jerking himself hard, holding a foil-wrapped condom between his teeth. He's nice and thick; appreciate it while you can, smartass. Alex jerks his head at me. "Clear out of the way, man." 

I plant a final kiss on Dean's neck and roll out from under him. "Try him on his knees," I recommend. 

"Shut up." Alex rips at the foil, rolling the rubber over his cock, reaching for Dean. "Which way you like it, kid?" 

Dean snakes a hand to the back of Alex's head, pulling him down into a kiss. The hungry sound of it makes me groan. I watch as Alex strokes him, spreading his legs and taking the left one back over his shoulder, tipping his ass up, nudging at it with his cock. 

"High pain threshold," Alex says, grinning down at the kid, "that means you like it hard?" Dean bares his teeth in a vicious semi-smile. "Knock yourself out." 

I slump at the side of the couch, reaching for the whiskey. The kid makes a thin sound, not quite pain, as the head of Alex's cock pushes up him. He's stiff, I can see that, horny as hell, the slut. Rolled back at the waist, ready to take every inch of it, to be fucked full of hot cock. Holy Moses. I touch myself in a trance of pleasure. Are there more like him from wherever he comes from? Do they take cash? 

"Jesus, kid, so fucking tight!" Alex forces himself up him, sweating. After a while, he groans and starts to ride. "Yeah, that's good, better." 

Dean grabs Alex's head and hauls it back into a kiss, shutting him up as they fuck. He takes it deep and hard, squirming with need under Alex's heavy thrusts, opening for each one, letting them batter him halfway through the couch. His skin's like milk next to Alex's tan, his body slim under the more muscle-packed man doing the pounding. 

I get my cock out and start stroking it. This has gotta be the single hottest thing I've seen in forever. 

"Hard enough for you?" Alex asks Dean, slamming in. 

The kid gives him a contemptuous look from under his lashes. "No." 

Alex grunts and hikes his legs higher, fucking fast, slapping the kid's ass with the force of it. They're both wet with sweat. The snakehead tattoo in the small of Alex's back stretches its mouth into a broad grin under the impact. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Dean rasps in a sing-song pattern to the thrusts. 

"Better?" Alex grits. 

"Harder," Dean demands, thrusting his ass to meet the slamming shoves. "Hurt me, you fuck." His voice was a whimper, shot through with desperation. "Please." He's not used to being the one begging, that much is clear. 

I could watch them and listen to this for-fucking-ever. And the worst of it, the very worst of it, is that I don't know what he is desperate for, the pain or the fucking, or whether I want Alex to stop. Or to never stop. 

That does it for Alex, making the pretty boy beg for his cock. He drops his head back and curses as he comes, holding the kid's hips in both hands, rough enough to mark him. 

When he's done, he collapses on top of Dean, who shoves at him (Alex is no lightweight) until Alex pulls free and drops to the floor, still panting. 

I move to take Alex's place on the couch. "Fuck off," Dean warns me, back to his cocky act, but he's stiff and wet; clearly needs to come as much as I do. 

"Just looking," I tell the kid. It's true. The sight of that hot stretched hole, his ass as pink as his lips, is enough to bring me off. 

I fist the spunk from my cock, up the inside of the kid's thighs, groaning as I do it. Best fucking orgasm of my entire life, and I never even touched the kid once. So help me, God. Gotta tell Alex I'll work for free for a month if only he'll keep nailing this ass here for a couple of days. 

Dean makes some noise, sounding scornful, like he's reading my dirty mind. Which he probably is. I lean in and lick the precum off the head of his cock. Great taste, like salted sugar. Before he can protest, I'm swallowing his cock, taking it right down until my lips are kissing the tight balls at its base. 

Dumb move, as it turns out. Dean grabs two fistfuls of my hair, hauling my head down and holding it there as he thrusts up with an angry jut of his hips, repeating the action until he's nearly fucking the throat out of me. There's a smacking sound as my fists hit the couch in protest. But the kid's got me fast; I'm going nowhere `til this is done. 

Shit. My eyes are watering as I try to keep up with him. He's working his hips like a fucking dynamo and I'm not getting nearly enough air through my nose. 

Shit! I choke on the kid's cock as he comes, spurting spunk, fucking until every last drop is shot, before dragging my head up by the hair and thrusting me away. 

I fall to my knees on the floor, coughing and cursing. The kid drops back onto the couch with a shuddering, stuttering gasp. 

"Jee-sus!" Alex whistles, and slaps me on the back. "Hardest face-fuck I ever saw, man. Someone should film this kid in action." 

I pass on this remark. Alex's got a few big clients who play for the home team. Anonymous to me, so I nicknamed them in my head. We could rec the kid to Manrammer (nice ass, unfortunate attitude). Though Raw Skin would give a fatter tip. The kid would make a lot of people very happy by just posing in a collar and a leash, wearing nothing but that hurt pout. 

I reach for the whiskey and slug it back with a thirsty sound. Alex laughs. Dean ignores us both, lying in a sprawl of sweat-kissed limbs on the couch, looking more beautiful than ever. 

"Christ," I manage at last, my voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. I hope I just earned myself a fucking brownie point here. 

The kid rolls his head at the neck to look at me. His eyes are huge, drugged-black. "I told you to keep your mouth away from me," he slurs. Not an apology, just a statement. 

"Son of a bitch..." I massage my throat. 

"True." Dean drops his head back onto the couch, shutting his eyes. "She is." 

"Roll over," Alex tells him, pulling on his pants, the belt buckle clanking. 

"Get lost," it's a murmur, slurred still. "You've had all you're getting." 

"Kid, I couldn't fuck today again after that without ending up on crutches. I want to outline the Ameth. Deal's a deal." 

Dean rolls over, burying his head in his folded arms. He doesn't bother to pull on his briefs. Alex strokes sweat from the kid's back with his fingertips, tasting them before reaching for the liquid soap. 

I'm nursing my throat with whiskey and my eyes keep returning to Dean's bare ass. "Light?" I offer Alex, weakly. 

"Sure. And one for the kid. Could use a towel, too." 

I get up, get my shit and shirt together and stagger to the bathroom, staring at the inside of my mouth in the mirror. Jesus, the kid nearly skinned me alive. Didn't I tell you he was scary? I haven't seen scary around for a while. That's encouraging. I suspect Alex is driven to study what scares him so that he knows how to deal it in. 

I fetch the towel, taking it back into the other room, together with the cigarettes. Alex lights a couple, puffing at them both before planting one in the corner of Dean's mouth. "Suck it up, kid." 

I watch as he scrubs sweat off the kid's back and works the soap to a lather, rinsing and drying the skin before arranging Dean how he wants him. 

"So these tattoos," Dean blows smoke, "they for life?" 

"You bet." Alex grins. "By the time I've finished, it'll take a blowtorch to get these off." 

The kid shivers, like someone's walking on his grave. Then he lies still and shuts his eyes, letting Alex work the magic deep into his skin. 

I contemplate the empty glass in my hand. I think I need to go take a very long walk now. I hope Alex's a long way from finishing when I get back. 

/end

  
 

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Title:   **Ink**   
Author:  Griva   [email/website]   
Details:   **Standalone**  |  **NC-17**  |  **41k**  |  **02/15/09**   
Pairings:  Crossover Pairing  |  Alex Krycek, Dean, Sam   
Category:  Story, Crossover  |  The X Files / Supernatural   
Notes:  Dean and Sam are not related!   
  
  
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